Suddenly, Irene threw her book aside, with a movement of impatience,
and stood up.
"Don't you find it very close?" she said, almost irritably. "I shall
go upstairs. Good-night!"
Her aunt gazed at her in surprise.
"You are tired, my dear."
"I suppose I am--Aunt, there is something I should like to say, if
you will let me. You are very kind and good, but that makes you,
sometimes, a little indiscreet. Promise me, please, never to make me
the subject of conversation with anyone to whom you cannot speak of
me quite openly, before all the world."
Mrs. Hannaford was overcome with astonishment, with distress. She
tried to reply, but before she could shape a word Irene had swept
from the room.
When they met again at breakfast, the girl stepped up to her aunt
and kissed her on both cheeks--an unusual greeting. She was her
bright self again; talked merrily; read aloud a letter from her
father, which proved that at the time of writing he had not seen
Arnold Jacks.
"I must write to the Doctor to-morrow," she said, with an air of
reflection.
At ten o'clock they drove to the station. While Miss Derwent took
her ticket Mrs. Hannaford walked on the platform. On issuing from
the booking-office, Irene saw her aunt in conversation with a man,
who, in the same moment, turned abruptly and walked away. Neither
she nor her aunt spoke of this incident, but Irene noticed that the
other was a little flushed.
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